Stillbrow
by CoriOreo
Summary: The cat, the rat, the seadog, and the squirrel - three paths, a cast of thousands, and one abbey with a tradition of standing on the crux of history. Neither verminness nor heroism are inborn traits, but the careful accumulation of a lifetime's choices - so choose carefully.
1. Prologue

1

Cooley Brinetail could have been called many things, but "outgoing" was not one of them. She was inquisitive and intelligent, of course, as any Sister-in-training ought to be; she had a nose on her to rival that of Friar Alvor and the smoothest penmanship of any youngbeast in Mossflower. But all her life, she had exhibited no tendency more strongly than a general introversion that was nearly debilitating in scope. She shrank from socializing and extricated herself from company as quickly as possible; she made poor eye contact and stared at the ground when she walked. Even as a kit, abandoned and freezing to death in the snow outside the Abbey walls fourteen seasons ago, she had not cried and would never have been found had her future adoptive father not been on night patrol that evening. Throughout her entire childhood, when the other babes were screaming and exercising their new little lungs, she remained quiet and made noise only when provoked.

Certainly, she knew how to use her voice when necessary. Her greatest confidant existed in her sister, and the two of them often talked late into the night, whispering into the dark in the dormitories after even the moon itself had gone down to sleep. She spoke easily to those she trusted. Her laughter, when it could be coaxed out of her, was loud and rich. But to those outside of her family, outside of the circle of Brothers and Sisters who could be called her friends, she was a reticent creature, and one that the librarian often had to work to shoo down from atop the dusty library bookshelves, where she had a tendency to curl up and read when it was quiet. She kept her habit straight and her tail always tucked neatly by her footpaws. All her young life, it seemed to them, was devoted to remaining unobjectionable.

Most of the residents of Redwall Abbey said that she was shy, and this was true. Some of the less-forgiving woodlanders, however, had always claimed to find her true nature suspect. They whispered it to one another behind their paws, even if they knew that they had little to truly complain about.

For as Grandma Thornspine had been heard to say on occasion: inoffensiveness was, perhaps, the most that any goodbeast could have expected out of a wildcat.

* * *

Far, far away from the abbey, the Northlands themselves, it seemed, were shaking with fear, and the debris was coming down.

The rumors had been trickling into the far ends of Mossflower for a full season. The stories were always ill-defined, of burned villages and poisoned crops. None of the merchants who came down bearing such news ever seemed to know who the perpetrators were, or what they wanted, or even whether they were a single horde or many scattered groups of brigands.

"I heard there was a rat," they always said. "A big ol' rat, colored like slate."

Some mentioned the strange involvement of voles. Some told harrowing stories of finding mutilated bodies, surrounded with feathers and torn apart, not sharply and quickly as would a raptor's beak, but dully, painfully, the long thin marks of a scavenger.

Some said ravens, others rooks. The fact remained that these birds were not commonly known to kill.

Why would they start now?

There were rustlings in the woods, flocks of sparrows sent to sky, a trail of destruction gashed across the land, northeast to southwest. There was fire in the scrub that consumed entire settlements. A den of foxes had their eyes plucked out. The devestation was not random and it was not scattered; it was planned, and it was happening to an end, and it was frightening.

And always, the rumors insisted, there was a rat.

It was colored like slate.

* * *

**I am dipping my toe into the water with this story to see if there is an audience for it. Completed, it will likely become novel-length. If you're at all interested in seeing it continued, please, drop a line to let me know. It means a lot.**


	2. A Very Happy Birthday

2

The Winter of the Rose-Sky in Mossflower was still in its infancy, but all this year had howled with the fury of giants. Every night, it seemed, snow fell with a determination to drown the world beneath it while blizzard winds screamed. No small number of woodlanders had retreated to the abbey to escape from the bitter cold and crushing ice of the countryside; cots were set by the dozen in Cavern Hole, and rations were planned cautiously in deference to the wailing beast of the season outside the old red stones. The winter was harsh and unforgiving this year, and even as frost-flowers blossomed across windows and long spiraling icicles trickled down eaves, to assign softness to this beauty would have been deathly folly. The wind held knives under its white cloak.

On this particular morning, however, the season was living up to its name as the red sun rose upon a rare, still landscape. The snow-swept country sparkled under a bare gash of pink light along the horizon, and trees seemed bowed beneath the first sun-shadows they had seen in weeks. There were no birds in the sky and no beasts among the trees, and as the young wildcat Cooley watched the dawn from the dormitory window, it occurred to her that she might be the only beast in the entire world to be witnessing such a calm moment in the midst of such harsh winter.

Unnerved, she wrapped the bedclothes tighter around her shoulders. There was no sound in the room but the breathing of her bunkmates. The freshly-fallen snow on the ground shone faintly in the new light of day, and despite the still-burning embers in the dormitory fireplace, the air was cold enough to turn each beast's breath to white mist. Though the area around the window felt like a sphere of winter all of its own, Cooley didn't generally mind her bed at its side; she had the thickest fur of any of the room's residents, and the view northeast over the wall was one worth waking each morning for. She sat for several minutes more, with her tail wrapped around her haunches for warmth, but finally the young cat shivered and pulled her habit up around her shoulders.

"Ori," she whispered toward a shadowed corner of the room. "Ori, it's time to wake." She swung her legs from bed and padded softly over to the inner wall of the room to prod at the squirrel-shaped lump in bed there. "Come on," she said again.

The blankets wriggled as the beast beneath them rolled over and a long broad tail swept out from beneath the sheets. A muffled "Must I?" was uttered from somewhere near the pillow.

"Yes," Cooley said patiently, shifting her weight back and forth on the freezing stone floors. "The friar and I need you. You can come back to bed when you're done, if you like."

For a second there was silence. "Right, then," the voice came again, and a small brown paw shot out from under the blankets. "Hand me my garments, cat."

"Come and get 'em yourself, lazyhide," Cooley said, retreating back to her bed to sit and rub her footpaws. "I'm freezing half to death waiting for you out here."

A small, rumpled female squirrel with an enormous tail sat up finally and blinked a few times, focusing her eyes to gaze forlornly toward the window. "And I called you a friend," she said sadly, throwing back the blankets. She stretched and yawned widely and then, without a further moment's hesitation, bounded up and out of bed, across the cold floor, and to the rack on the wall whereon her habit hung. "Cold!" she cried, dancing around and tying the vestment around her waist.

Across the room, there was a groan. "Shaddap, ya dream-wreckers," Brook called loudly at the two of them, and from the far wall Sumbree gave a grunt of agreement. Ori froze theatrically and looked toward the other two beds. "Sorry!" she whispered loudly, timidly, and then she straightened her cords one last time and bounded out of the room. Cooley followed her out the door as both creatures tried to skip or move as gingerly as was possible down the freezing stairs.

"_Martin,_ it's cold," Ori griped as they turned into the entrance hall. Cooley bowed her head slightly to the enormous tapestry and the sword hung across the wall opposing the main entrance, but said nothing. "Will there be preserves out this morning, Cu?"

"What?" The cat looked back over at her friend, who was still rubbing her footpaws against her legs on every other step, but looked as though she were starting to adjust to the cold. "I think there will, yes."

"Wonderful," said the squirrel, skipping ahead toward the entrance to the Great Hall. "Am I going to be allowed to make demands for the favor I'm doing you this morning?" she called back.

"One doesn't usually ask to be allowed to make demands, Ori." Cooley was close now to the entrance to the kitchens, and pushed the doors open as she reached them. "Friar!" she called out. She and the squirrel entered the room together, and it was like stepping into summertime. Ori gave a small _whoof _of relief. The kitchen fires were blazing and the first loaves had already made it into the oven. "Friar?"

"I'm over here, dearie," called a squeaky voice from the pantry. Ori crossed the room to see the fat old Friar Alvor atop a ladder, trying to handle a bag of flour nearly half his size.

"Do you need some help, Brother?" Ori called up.

"I don't think so," puffed the dormouse as he descended the ladder, wobbling dangerously. "There… we… go." He placed his feet back on the ground and set down the flour again, sweating profusely. "Phew! Ah, they make this flour heavier each year just to git to me, you know!" He gave a small _hup_ and lifted the flour up onto his hip, waddling toward the stove with it.

Cooley tiptoed lightly toward the preserve shelves by the door while Ori bound up to the stove and stuck out her paws to warm them. "You did call me in, Friar, did ye not?" she called over her shoulder. The friar dusted flour from his apron with a nod and pointed upward toward the kitchen rafters. The squirrel craned her head. There seemed to be nothing there.

As Cooley took her turn beginning to chop dried peaches for the porridge, Ori approached the Friar. "Abbeybabes," he said to her, still pointing upward, as if this explained everything. Ori tilted her head and the friar shook his. "A couple o' young 'uns stole a bag o' corn meal the other day and hid it in the rafters," Alvor said. "Can ye see it up there?"

Ori stepped back again and turned on the spot. "I can't, Brother." But in the corner of her eye, she spied one of the ceiling's wooden support beams and with hardly a moment's thought turned and ran toward it. She bounded up the beam without effort and hoisted her weight up onto the rafters. It smelled strongly of bread and dust up here, and the light of the kitchen fire hardly reached. Her head seemed swathed in shadows and she squinted to see.

"An' where am I looking for it, now?" she called down.

"Behind the chimney," said the Friar. It wasn't a terribly long distance to the ground, but the high ceiling lost his voice easily. Ori frowned. "Sort of… next to behind the ol' main chimney. You'll see it, I'm sure."

Ori shook a spider web from her ear and began to clamber across the rafters toward the chimney. Meanwhile on the ground, Cooley was removing bread from the ovens with cloths wrapped around both paws. Meals this season had not been sumptuous, with thought given to a possible food shortage and many new guests, but breakfast each morning still offered porridge and pie and bread and fruits to nearly tenscore beasts within the abbey. The fresh yeasty smell made Cooley feel warm to her whiskers, and she smiled the rare smile that only cats can give. She'd known for a very long time that it would please her greatly to work in the kitchens for the rest of her days, and now that she was of age, she was finally beginning to fall into her forthcoming role in the abbey. The future looked bright and warm as a blackberry pie, and in her quiet way, she was happy.

Ori shuffled across the rafters far above her head. Her claws scratched on the crumbling black brick of the fireplace as she clambered carefully across the dusty wood toward the chimney. She tried futilely to peer into the wall where the plaster had never been set, which had no light about it and a distinct smell of antiquity and probably spiders. Ori stopped and twitched her large tail.

"I can't see where this bag is," she called down to the ground. Alvor gave Cooley a glance and called up, "It's there, young 'un, you keep looking." He turned on his little feet toward the bubbling cauldron of porridge on the open fire and Cooley rubbed at her ears through her fur. It was becoming a bit over-warm in the kitchens.

Ori could be heard to say, "I don't know, father, I can't see 'em…" and then there was a large amount of scratching and rustling, and a triumphant sound. "A-ha! Wait…" Cooley looked up. "What's all this?" And then, with a whip and a thump, Ori dropped skillfully from the rafters with a medium-sized brown bag in one paw and a note in the other.

"'A very happy birthday to you?'" she read, perplexed. Then her ears perked up and she yanked the bag open on the floor. Candied chestnuts and dried strawberries and figs spilled across the shiny kitchen floor as comprehension dawned in her eyes. Alvor chuckled aloud and Cooley turned away with a smile. "You ruffians!" Ori cried happily as she gathered up her gift in its bag. "You tricksters! You've made a fool of me!" Then she leapt suddenly onto the taller cat's back and gave a stranglehold of a hug. "You're my best friend!"

Cooley staggered at the weight but laughed out loud. Her laughter was rich and warm and scratchy, like a long stretch across a roughspun rug.

* * *

Much as she tried, Brook Brinetail had been unable to sleep again after being woken by the squirrel and wildcat that morning. Within a quarter-hour of their departure, the big female otter was up and ready to begin her day. While she and her family were not members of Redwall's order, they had been permanent residents of the abbey since before her birth. They, along with several others, did not wear green habits, but instead in wintertime donned long green vests as a sign of loyalty and respect. Brook slid into her vest each and every morning with a small buzz of pride, and she looked toward the east with hope. It was looking to be the first clear day in weeks.

She marched out into the main halls of the abbey at the same time that many other beasts were beginning to rise. Abbeybabes, woken with the sun, were swarming about the Entrance Hall and begging to be let out into the snow. Brook hadn't yet seen her mother or father, but surely they were up and about, lighting fires and setting places in the Great Hall. Her legs felt free this morning, her arms loose and her rudder strong. If the pond hadn't been frozen over, she'd have gone for a swim.

"Daisy!" she called out as she popped a quick head into the Great Hall. "Have ye seen my sister about?" Daisy Thornspine turned to give the otter a quick look before turning back to her old gray grandmother. "I haven't," she said tersely, placing napkins more quickly around the table. "You should look in the kitchens, shouldn't you?"

"Declawed 'er yet?" barked Grandma Thornspine as usual from her comfortable place next to the hearth. Brook ignored the old hedgehog and stalked past the two of them, squaring her shoulders to look more threatening in as non-threatening a manner possible. The Thornspines were a respected family in Mossflower, but since grandmother and granddaughter had come to the abbey to escape the ravages of winter, Brook had only found them an abrasive couple. "Don't know how you keep 'er long whiskers out of _our_ food," snipped the grandmother as Brook passed them by. "Unsanitary, it is. Whole abbey ought to be investigated."

Brook tried to simply think, _Old bat,_ but it wasn't without a bit of anger.

When Brook entered the kitchen, Cooley was helping hoist a vat of porridge onto its carrier, Ori was up in the rafters again, swinging her tail and munching happily on chestnuts, and, most surprisingly, Brook's own father, Shundil, could be found at the chopping board, cracking walnuts and setting them in bowls for consumption. "Dad!" she said in surprise as she stepped in the hot stone room. "Yer bein' productive!"

The enormous male otter, from whom she'd inherited her size, turned around with a cheeky grin. He held up a claw to his mouth, indicated, "Shh!" and stealthily popped a walnut into his mouth as he turned back to the board. Friar Alvor seemed not to notice the otter plundering his nuts; as every day, three times a day, since time immemorial, he was fretting about the upcoming meal.

"They're gathering!" he squeaked, skittering across the room and tossing frosted bottles of mead all about. "Cooley, get that porridge out immediately!" Then he barked up at Ori, "Orilia Redear, you get right down here and place the drinks! Your birthday may begin again when breakfast is over!" The squirrel dropped back to the ground with a sulk and started gathering up the bottles with her broomlike tail dragging across the ground.

Brook stepped over toward the vat of porridge and said, "Here." She grabbed her two ends of the wooden frame and her sister the wildcat took her end in turn. Cooley was a bit smaller than Brook, and not nearly as well-muscled, but she was still a slim creature of above-average height who possessed a physical strength that she did not have to work to maintain. The two beasts grunted, shifted their paws, and then lifted the slopping vat with minimal effort.

Shundil whistled as he shambled over to push the door casually open for his daughters. The cat and otter entered the Great Hall at the very moment when most of the creatures in the abbey were gathering and beginning to grumble with hunger, and their arrival signaled the much-awaited meal's beginning. Abbeybabes ran up to their ankles to giggle and be snatched away by their mothers, and many beasts prepared their bowls for when the vat came around to their table. Cooley blushed beneath her fur, but smiled and nodded graciously as each beast thanked her in turn for the service.

She and Brook doled out porridge to the Fieldhole mouse family, to the Sandvoles, and to a grateful-looking group of rabbits who had only arrived in the last week, while Shundil exited the kitchen himself to set curiously depleted bowls of walnuts among the diners. Friar Alvor danced out with a basket full of soft, warm bread and soaked up the kind words as beasts sampled his food. "You'm young 'uns are doin' Martin's work yourselves," one skinny old mole told Brook gravely as he accepted his bowl of porridge with gravitas. "Bless e'ry one o' you'm."

The duo snaked their way through the thronging crowd as their supplies of food dwindled. "Outta th' way, babes!" Brook called to a tiny mouse and squirrel dancing underfoot by Grandma Thornspine's chair at the fireside. They scattered and the old hedgehog held out her bowl to the two of them without a word. Brook took the bowl, but there was no table at her end of the carrier's frame onto which to transfer its weight. She struggled for a moment with trying to balance the handle on her hip, and then gave up. Cooley sat her handle on the edge of a chair and reached out as Brooke handed her the wooden bowl.

"NO!" came the screech from the old hedgehog matron. Brook jumped, porridge slopped, and Cooley let go of the bowl, which fell into the vat and sunk halfway. The entire hall instantly quieted. "Not you, don't you touch that! Don't you dare!" Grandma Thornspine howled, standing up partially from her chair and pointing accusingly at the wildcat's outstretched paw, still in the air. "Get those _horrid_ claws off of my food!" Cooley felt stung, and suddenly quite lightheaded. Every single beast in the hall was staring at her.

The hedgehog raged as her granddaughter ran up to her. "Who let this in the kitchen?" demanded the elder Thornspine. "Unsanitary, I told them! You don't see 'em letting foxes into the abbey, do you, fixin' our food! Weasles! You keep out the vermin!"

The already deafening silence suddenly drew tight as leather.

The wildcat stared for a moment. She'd gone deaf and her eyes didn't seem to be working. Then, her grip slowly faded on the handle of the wooden frame carrying the vat. Brooke saw what was coming. "Cooley!" she barked, but it was too late. The cat let go of her remaining corner of the frame and it tipped wildly off of the chair. The cauldron rolled and then it spilled, down and out, splattering the hem of Grandma Thornspine's dress and even running into the fire. The smell of burning milk turned immediately acrid and Brooke groaned as she dropped her half of the frame in defeat.

Several beasts stood up as the old hedgehog began screeching again. "Horrid animals! You've ruined my clothing! Get this creature out of my sight!"

But Cooley couldn't hear her. She had already fled the room.


	3. Dust

3

Abbot Samson had not attended breakfast that morning. In truth, he hadn't been eating well for most of a week. Perhaps it was old age sneaking up on him – though only the first touches of grey were beginning to bow his whiskers – or perhaps winter's cabin fever was falling on him sooner than expected. Whatever the reason, as a drama unfolded itself in the Great Hall below, he was quite unaware of it and in fact was far on the other end of the abbey, approaching the bell tower as Buoy Brinetail rung the first hours into the day.

He clapped his paws over his ears as he cleared the last five steps into the cold, open air where _Matthias_ and _Methuselah_ were clanging their high, clear tones into the equally brisk air. The sky this morning had opened up from pink to a deep golden color, and the sun itself was just beginning to clear the white trees of Mossflower Wood, tossing its light across the landscape with joyful abandon. Stout little Buoy was nearly lifted into the air with each swing on the bellrope, but managed to keep both footpaws firmly on the ground – as she did in nearly all aspects of her life. On the seventh toll, she allowed the bells to quiet and slow, before letting go of the rope and tying it securely to the support beams. Her heavy breaths puffed clouds of frost-white into the air before her. "'Allo, Abbot," she said, wiping her paws on her apron without looking at the older mouse. "What brings this pleasure? Oughtn't you be eating?"

"I could ask you the same," Samson said flippantly, tucking his paws into his wide habit sleeves. "Oughtn't you be inside by the fires? Shundil normally handles the bells, my friend."

The little ottermum snorted and thumped over to where Samson stood within the bounds of sunlight, brightening the cold red stones under their footpaws. "The ol' lug et nearly an entire hotroot on his fish last night and slept badly, kickin' me all night long" she said, arms akimbo. "Then 'e wakes up this mornin' and says he's going to the kitchen t' 'elp with breakfast because he's starvin' to death! Can you believe that dog?" Samson laughed.

"Well, your daughter certainly has her father's vivacity and I think you're luckier for it," he said. Then he backpedaled, "Well, that is. Daughters, I mean, of course."

Buoy patted his arm. "It's quite alright, Abbot. No reason to pretend the girl's somethin' she's not." She looked away for a moment. "She's getting' better, though, Cooley is," she added hopefully, looking back up. "You remember last week, when she even participated in preparin' the abbeybabes' treasure hunt?"

"I didn't notice," Samson admitted.

"She did. Interacted freely with the other youngbeasts and everythin'." Then Buoy sighed. "I don't know what to do sometimes, Father. Such a sweet kit's got no reason to be scared of everythin' as she is."

"All in time, Buoy, I'm sure," said Father Samson. "She's growing up, and growing up well. You and Shundil have been extraordinary parents."

Buoy said sadly, "I like to think so, Father." Then she paused. "If you must know…" She glanced over at the older mouse and then away again. The bright snow-reflected sun was beginning to burn at Samson's eyes, but he did not blink. Buoy shrugged and let the words die in her throat. It wasn't anything important, really.

The two of them were silent for a few moments. Then the otter murmured, "Now, ye haven't told me what you were avoidin' breakfast for, Father."

The old mouse sighed, curling his toes on the cold stone beneath them. "I haven't been sleeping well, my friend," he admitted, not looking at her, but out to the great white northeast. "Pleasant dreams have been few and far between as of late."

"Ah." Buoy was only slightly taller than the well-aged mouse, and turned to look him squarely in the eye, though he did not return her gaze. She tried to smile. "Well, you know me gram was a fortune teller, Father. What sorts of dreams are these?"

Father Samson did not answer straight away, but was again quiet for a few moments. Two birds broke upward from the treeline far away and shrilled their delights into the high clear morning. "Dark ones," he admitted after a moment, still staring straight out ahead, his eyes flickering between bird and tree and cloud. "Some of them are nonsensical, the stuff of stress and age. Fire in the kitchens caused by a white flower, or, or the abbey overrun by ants. Others, though," he added, and now he turned to meet Buoy's gaze with a pained look in his eye, "in others, I… I am in a dark place, and no matter how long and hard I search, I never find an escape. I also know that there are monsters outside my dungeon, and this knowledge makes me wonder if I ever _want_ to escape." He stopped and coughed into his sleeve once before straightening up again, turning his eyes away from Buoy's once more. He looked angered. "Last night, in the darkness, I knew there was a ghost with me, but no matter how long and hard I called to him to hear a familiar voice, he never responded to me." Buoy herself turned away as the abbot coughed again.

"Per'aps it's a sign," she said. The abbot shook his head.

"I've never much believed in dreams," he said. He lowered his quiet voice: "But I have rarely woken so troubled each morning as these last few weeks."

The final, lingering edge of the sun broke free at last from the forest's pine crown.

There was a great boom from far below as the abbey doors swung open and a happy yelling filled the air, but in the belltower, two beasts remained still and very, very silent.

* * *

Shundil Brinetail wasn't a beast who angered easily. Being a head taller than any other beast in Mossflower Wood may have influenced this sentiment in him, of course, but his entire life, he had found that problems were more easily solved through conversation than argumentation. Even at a size where he could pick up most abbeybabes in a single paw and toss them in the air, he was more likely to be swarmed by them and forced to the ground in a writhing happy mass. His stomach was ticklish and he was unwilling to swat flies in summertime, but would instead carefully follow them around a hot room for hours at time so that he might catch them and let them go outdoors. Simply put, Shundil was a lover, not a fighter.

Most of the time, anyway. Right now, Shundil was furious.

The Great Hall was in chaos. Brothers and Sisters ran willy-nilly through the thronging crowd to reinstate order, Grandma Thornspine was still howling like a caged animal, abbeybabes by the dozen had taken advantage of the confusion to rush the entrance hall and exit to the snowy lawns, and the air was smogged with the sharp smell of burning porridge. Friar Alvor seemed to be in a panic. He ran in little circles around the kitchen doors.

Shundil straightened his long neck to peer over the crowds. On the north end of the hall, he could see Brook doing the same, wiping porridge from her paws and looking quite upset. He squared his shoulders and pushed aside two voles and a crying young rabbit to reach one of the long wooden meal tables. He took two steps onto the bench and then the tabletop and then paused once before squaring his shoulders and filling his deep chest.

"QUIET!" he roared over the hall, his voice echoing like the clanging bells in their tower. All chatter except for that of the elder Thornspine ceased immediately as heads turned to the big male otter standing head and tail above the rest of them. Grandma Thornspine continued wailing in the corner, but Daisy was beginning to lead her out of the hall. Several mothers slipped out with them in search of their children. "There's no reason to be in a tiff, it's just a spill," he boomed over the heads of all in attendance. "Go on! If ye didn't receive your food, we'll find somethin' for ye. If you've eaten, get to work cleanin' up the porridge!" Two mice scurried over to the spilled vat with large cleaning cloths as Shundil hopped down from the table again. The atmosphere in the room was noticeably subdued.

Brook heard the last of her father's commands as she exited the Great Hall, but though she had not eaten, breakfast was far from her mind. She pushed the heavy wooden doors open with more force than necessary and looked wildly about the entrance hall. Several babes were being forcibly removed from the snow outside by their mothers, and Sister Vernia stood dutifully by with warm blankets. But it was the two figures in the corner that Brook was looking for.

"You!" she cried, storming over toward Daisy Thornspine, who was smoothing down the spikes on her grandmother's back. "What was that, you awful grubneedles?" Daisy glared, but Brook didn't care for politeness. "Did you see where she went?"

"No," snapped the younger hedgehog, and she looked as angry as Brook felt. "And I don't care to. Better gone, the lot of 'em, you should know. She nearly gave my gram a conniption fit!"

"She'll poison me, one of these days," Grandma Thornspine muttered, wiping at her gray face with a kerchief. "I know. You can't kill nature."

Electricity seared in Brook's shoulders. "Really!" she sputtered, but she turned away in disgust and looked to the door where Ori was standing and looking baffled.

"Brook!" she cried, skittering over to the big otter. "What on earth's going on? I was eating chestnuts and when I came out there was porridge on the floor and your father was yelling at everyone!"

"We had a -" Brook jerked her head angrily at the hedgehogs. "There was an incident. Grandmarm _Pincushion_ here didn't like my sister touching her bowl. Do you know where she's gone?"

"Oh my." Ori froze and stared at the hogs for a moment before snapping back to attention. "If she's left, it's to the library, I'm sure." And she bounded toward the staircase without a backward glance. Brook began to follow at a slower lope as her father grabbed her arm.

"You know where she's gone?" Shundil asked his daughter as she tugged her shoulder away.

"I think so. I'll find her, Da," she promised, jogging after Ori. "Deal with the Thornspines, somehow, will you?" she called back.

Shundil turned back to the two spikedogs and shook his head.

And it had looked to be such a lovely morning, too.

* * *

"Cooley! There you are – Brook, come on, I've found her." Ori popped her head back over the top of the library bookshelf to gaze at the huddled lump of brown fur curled in on itself atop the dark wooden shelf. "Cooley, dearest friend, you won't come down?"

The cat didn't move. Ori sighed and sent a puff of dust into the air around her. She crawled fully atop the bookcase as Brook approached the base of the ladder below.

"Cooley, please," Brook called up herself, earning herself an unhappy look from the librarian, who nonetheless chose to stay uninvolved. "You know I can't come up there, I'll bow the shelves. Please, let's talk." She craned her neck upward for a second before Ori appeared back over the bookshelf edge and shook her head silently. Brook sighed and began, reluctantly, to climb the thin ladder.

Cooley had tucked herself into a niche in the wall alongside one of the tall slit windows through which the bright white winter sun was shining. In this spot, there was not only a blanket, two cushions, and a candle, long since stolen and placed for comfort, but a dustless footpath leading to it from the edge of the shelf that indicated frequent use. Brook unhappily hoisted herself from the ladder to atop the shelves, and the entire library seemed to groan in protest. She winced, but crawled dutifully toward the wall nonetheless.

"Come on, sis," she said a little gruffly, nudging the inert form trying to disappear inside its habit. "Everything's alright. Why are you so upset? Is it that old spikedog?"

Cooley mumbled from within the robe, "I'm sorry I dropped the porridge, Brook."

"Oh, it's hardly your fault," the otter said flippantly while Ori nodded vigorously in approval. "Old bat screaming at me'd likely make me lose my wits too."

Ori leaned over to hug the cat's side. "Thank you for the birthday present, Cu," she said. "You're the only one who remembered, you know."

For a second, Cooley didn't move. Then she sniffed and rolled over as Ori pulled away. She sat up, but wouldn't look at either of her friends. Her yellow eyes seemed a bit shinier than usual. Brook shifted slightly, trying to recover from a kneeling position without sitting in a dust bunny.

"I'm sorry I'm being so difficult," Cooley said after a moment, still avoiding Brook and Ori's gazes. "Does everyone in the hall hate me now?"

Brook frowned. "Now what kind of lame-footed question is that?"

"I ruined breakfast!" the wildcat cried, looking up and pressing her paws to her chest. "Why am I like this? Why can I speak to both of you, but when the Great Hall looks to me I feel I'm about to faint? Why does the word…" Her voice faded and she looked out at the window.

"Shyness, you can't help it," Ori said sagely, but Brook frowned at her sister's last question.

"Ori?" she said quietly, not bothering to try and conceal her voice from Cooley. "Would you give us the time?" Ori's tail popped up and she tilted her head, but Brook jerked her elbow toward the library entrance. The squirrel pouted and then looked concerned, but bounced away and down the shelves again without another word. The door closed solidly behind her, leaving a ticking silence in her stead.

Brook looked sidelong at the wildcat. She had her paws wrapped around her knees and a very confused expression on her face. Without speaking, Brook scooted over and slipped herself into the niche with her sister, so their shoulders pressed together tightly in the small space.

And then, for a while, they didn't talk at all. And when Brook looked upward, it was to see an entire dust mote ballet taking place between sunbeam and shadow. Each breath whirled the air like snow.

"I think I see why you like coming up here so much," she said quietly. Cooley shifted slightly.

"She used that word," the cat said, and her voice sounded scratched and heavy as a piece of old stone. "I couldn't help it, Brook. I panicked."

"I know," Brook said.

"And whenever they say it, 'vermin,' you know, I… Sometimes I think they'll all take a look at me and realize, 'Why she is, isn't she?'" She kicked angrily at the warm wood beneath her feet. "I think they'll hear the word, and they'll _know."_ Her last word's emphasis was laced with so much disappointment that it almost hurt to hear.

Brook's voice dropped very low. "Nobody knows, Cu."

"But _I_ know what I did," Cooley said, and her voice caught. "A-and you know about it, and Da and Ma do. And I'll never forget it, Brook, I can't. It's a _vermin_ thing to do."

Brook took a deep breath. The dust motes above broke into a waltz and she leaned over to bump the side of her head against her sister's ear. "Yer no vermin," she said. "Anyone talks to you for a moment knows you're really an otter." Cooley cried a little bit.

And then they were quiet together again for a very long while, and finally both of their eyes closed, and they fell asleep with the settling dust.


	4. Feet

**My apologies for the short chapter and slow update. Summer term classes are a bitch. This is the last introductory chapter before the plot gets rolling, so to those who have continued reading, I thank you, and hope you find the story's unfolding to be intriguing and enjoyable.**

4

Skitt Sunfoot was twenty seasons old and had once been the fastest and fleetest of foot of all his siblings. He had run with his brother and younger sisters in the northeastern vales all throughout his childhood, and though Skitt was second-oldest, he could beat them all by miles. With the wind in his ears and tears in his eyes and the soft loam beneath his feet, he had used to whoop at Camilla and Batta, the two little ones, running in circles around them until his brother Janni was ready to join the rest of them on the hilltops. They jumped across sloping crest and babbling brook together, four hares in a row, with the pale white northern skies shining across their brown backs and their legs burning with the fire of the sun in their names.

Now, though, in the deep of Mossflower's winter, bounding over and across root and shrubbery with blue-tinged paws and scarred sides, Skitt had siblings no longer, and he still held fire in his legs, but it was the fire of pain and biting cold. He couldn't be sure how long ago he had stopped leaving a trail of pink blood in the snow behind him, or if he had at all; neither could he be sure if he had pursuers to follow the trail, or if he was stretching himself to his breaking point without cause. But no matter how dearly he wished to stop, to rest, to crawl into the snow and die without feeling, he was sure that he couldn't have ceased running even if he tried.

Every time he slowed, after all, his mind clouded with a vision of Batta's little body on the pyre.

So he kept running. He was no creature for revenge, but he dearly wished he was. With his limbs operating themselves like the gears of a clock and his heart about to burst, it was all he could do to follow his own feet to the south, where there was not only sanctuary, he had heard, but the possibility that he might send a warning to the woodlanders.

The Sanguine was coming, he would say, and there was nothing they could do but run.

Ori really didn't understand the problem.

Of course, that was something said about her quite often – that she _just didn't understand._ All her sweet optimism seemed to mean little to others in the face of the foolishness that she sometimes exhibited in everyday life. She didn't understand the importance of this thing, or the sheer implication of that. She wasn't _stupid,_ really. She was just easily excitable, and extraordinarily enthusiastic. And perhaps a shade undiscerning. And, yes, it did, sometimes, take her a bit longer to understand the problem, or the joke, or the answer to the joke, than it did anyone else.

That said, though: She _really_ didn't understand the problem.

"Banishment from the kitchens?" Cooley asked, aghast. "But Father -" The abbot tried to raise a paw to silence her, but in that same moment all four of the Brinetails joined her to speak in symphony.

"Now, _Samson,"_ Buoy said sharply as her husband sputtered, "Why in the world?" Brook squared her shoulders and cried, "But that's not fair!" and Cooley continued to look crestfallen, asking, "But Father, why?" Ori clapped her paws over her ears at the onslaught of noise, but Abbot Samson took a long step forward and finally raised his voice.

"Quiet!" he called. Shundil and Brook closed their lips and Cooley silenced herself, but Buoy hadn't finished. "…quite uncalled for! Everyone agrees that Cooley had no fault in this!"

"I have to agree, sir," Ori said, a little fearful, but determined nonetheless. "I don't understand why Cooley should be punished for the panics of an old hedgehog."

"For Martin's sake," Abbot Samson said sourly, throwing up his paws, "let me _speak,_ you lot of songbirds. This is no punishment, it is an _allowance_. Give me the time. You, Miss Brinetail -" He pointed at Cooley. "With me, if you will."

Cooley glanced at Brook over her shoulder. The otter shrugged and the cat sagged her shoulders in defeat, beginning to follow the Abbot down the hallway at a slow, timid creep. Behind them, Buoy turned her head to the ground in anger while Shundil wrapped an arm around her shoulders, calling up to Cooley, "Meet us in Cavern Hole when you return, Wildflower."

Cooley heard her father's voice behind her as she walked, but didn't bother to look back. She didn't look anywhere other than the floor, and occasionally up to see the feet of the Father Abbot walking in front of her. Intermittently, his slippered paws could be seen flitting out from beneath his long habit. At her notice of this, she became suddenly aware of her own gait, her softer paws that she kept bare because they did not fit within any form of sandaled shoe. She bowed downward to watch her footpaws on the cold stone floor. Back and forth. In and out.

"For goodness' sake, child, you needn't be so penitent." Cooley started and froze, her eyes shooting up to where the abbot had stopped ahead, his paws clasped behind his back before a tall white window. She snapped up into shape herself, wrapping her tail neatly about her ankles with a delicacy that no mouse could manage.

"My apologies, Father," she said quietly, struggling to maintain eye contact without returning her gaze to the floor. "It's not penitence. I was just… thinking about my feet." The impulse to look away became nearly overwhelming as she saw amusement touch the older mouse's eyes.

"Oh, come now," he said, beckoning to her. "No need to look so frightened. I won't bite." She approached the window shyly as the abbot turned toward the landscape outside, patterned in the early afternoon with spotted shadows and cold sunshine on the snow. "Miss Brinetail," he asked as she situated herself at his left arm, "do you know why I need to do this?"

She let her gaze linger on a swaying pine in the far distance. "You mean banish me from the kitchens, Father?"

Samson waved a paw. "Not a banishment, child. You've done nothing to deserve such treatment." He paused. "You will be a Sister of the abbey one day. Soon."

Cooley still felt a cold unhappiness in her stomach, but to hear the Father Abbot himself promise her such a thing made her face feel warm with pride. "It would be an honor to be accepted one day, Father. Soon."

"And accepted you will certainly be," he said, patting her on the shoulder gently. He had to reach upward to do so, she realized all of a sudden. She was taller than the Father Abbot. "You are exemplary of what our Abbey stands for. Peace, humility, generosity – I see all of them in you. But with these must also come the ability to make sacrifices. If your willingness to take a temporary leave of absence from the kitchens means peace of mind for an old spikedog who is becoming fearful for the edge of life…"

Cooley looked down again. Of course. Of course, for the sake of one creature, she should sacrifice months of practice and enjoyment of the thing she loved. That was only Redwall's way, after all. But even as she rebelled in her mind, her mouth was forming the words, "I understand, Father. I will…" She looked up and took a deep breath, focusing her eyes on the flaws in the window pane. "I will stay from the kitchens until Grandmarm Thornspine has gone." _Or died,_ she thought bitterly, even as she felt awful for it. The abbot clasped a paw more tightly about her arm.

"You are truly a deserving Sister in our abbey," he said kindly to her. "If I may ask – when you take your vows, what would you like to be served at the feast?"

The cat turned to him this time, her gaze timid but unfaltering. "I don't care much what's served," she told him, "so long as I'm allowed to make it." As the older mouse laughed, she even allowed herself a smile, but she felt cold in her heart with the knowledge of the question she had to ask. "If I may know the truth of something, Father?"

Samson smiled at her genially. "Of course, child."

"A-" Cooley struggled with her words, unsure of how to phrase a question that sounded so insecure. She knew what she needed to know, but her lips seemed determined to sabotage her. "Are there any Brothers or Sisters of the abbey who… who would prefer I not be brought into the cloth?" This time, she couldn't make eye contact with the Abbot, no matter how hard she tried, and she was uncomfortably aware of how silent he had suddenly fallen. "Do any of them think I don't deserve a Sister's title?"

Samson took a minute to respond to her. "Why would any of them think that?"

Cooley could see her breath fogging on the window before her wet nose. She was dearly glad for the Father's company, and yet she hated him so for making her articulate such a thing out loud. "Do they not want vermin for a sister," she said finally, not as a question, but a statement, flat and colorless as paper. Shadows fell across the grounds outside, speckled shadows turning into a solid sheet of gray. Samson's paw on her elbow grew suddenly tight.

"Young lady," he said, not looking at her, but straight ahead with a strange look in his eye. "I will not tolerate hearing you refer to yourself in such a way again." He turned toward her sharply, clasping both her paws in his. "There are no trueborn children of Redwall, my child, but anybeast of any birth may find his place here." His gaze on hers was steely and long. "You are as much a goodbeast as any squirrel or mouse, Cula. Do you understand that?" She bowed her head. Their feet on the ground were nearly toe-to-toe.

"I understand, Father," she said.

"Good girl," he said, a little gruffly, pressing his paws into hers one last time before stepping back. He took a deep breath. Cooley continued to stare at the spot on the ground where their footpaws had been so intently pressed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Abbot shake his head.

"I do truly thank you for making such a sacrifice for another's good," he said to her, more gently this time. "I have never once lied when I said that you would be a great compliment to our order."

_And you have never once said that my entrance to your order goes uncontested. _ "Thank you, Father."

"It has been a long day," he said. "Allow yourself to rest tomorrow."

_As if I had any other choice._ "Thank you, Father. I will."

Samson lingered for a second longer, seemingly on edge about whether or not to speak again, but finally he left and Cooley stood alone at the window. On the wall behind her hung a small tapestry, neither fine nor old, but a work of art nonetheless. The weather outside was growing ever more gray the longer she watched. Once or twice, she would have sworn that she'd seen a snowflake drifting by the walls.

The only sound in the hallway was that of her own breathing and, somewhere far away, of the gentle _drip drip drip_ of a dying icicle. Anger welled in her chest like the tide, high and low, though she struggled to contain it. The memory of that morning gathered unbidden behind her eyes: _"You keep out the vermin!"_ Grandma Thornspine had shouted. _"Keep out the vermin!"_

_"I never want to hear you say that again,"_ said Abbot Samson.

And Brook said, _"Nobody knows, Cu."_

Sudden fury clutched her throat, and she whirled away from the window with a yowl, her robes streaming around her shoulders like a warrior's cloak. She struck the tapestry behind her, her claws dragging through the tight-woven fabric like knives and her knuckles white beneath her fur. The roses in the weave turned to shambles before her as she pulled her paw mightily from the wall, and the arras came loose of its securements and fluttered to the ground at her feet, some strings still wrapped tightly around her claws. She kicked at the fabric and realized for the first time that she was bearing her teeth, sharp and dry. She lifted a paw to her mouth unconsciously. .

And without any further thought, her vision seemed to suddenly clear, and she found herself standing in the middle of an empty hallway, snow falling outside the tall window and a ruined tapestry at her feet. Fear and shame clutched at her heart. She gathered the decoration in her habit and hid it beneath her mattress in the dormitories before she allowed herself to greet her parents in Cavern Hole. When they asked, she told them that she had allowed to step away from the kitchens for as long as the Thornspines were visitors in the Abbey, and for this they complimented her selflessness. Only Brook shared with her the sidelong glance that said she knew what pain this was, and even then, it didn't seem something Cooley could properly articulate, so of it they simply didn't speak.

She slept fitfully that night. Though it might have been because of the lump the destroyed tapestry made beneath her form, when she woke in the morning it was with some certainty that she also had once again dreamed a painful memory of feathers – of feathers and bones and blood.


End file.
